unexpected kindness
by scribblingnellie
Summary: STORY ON HIATUS. You never expected to see a kindness. A kindness would make someone stand out from the crowd. Their lives were organised and regulated by the Incorporated now and the best thing to be was official, never rogue. But for Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade, official was something they couldn't do. A new experiment in a dystopia AU. Many thanks for reading.
1. something

Molly liked it when Inspector Lestrade visited the morgue to collect the reports. And the fact that more often than not it was him was rather nice.

Looking up at the sound of the door, she saw his face peer around, his body following when he saw her. A smile? She was pretty sure he was smiling. Not that people didn't, but usually in an official capacity no-one did. Inspector Lestrade was there officially and he was smiling. And it made his face look rather handsome.

That was one reason why she liked to see him, to see his head of silver hair appear around the door. Of all the Force officers that came to the morgue, he was definitely the nicest, and the handsomest. And there was nothing wrong with thinking that way.

A small smile played over her mouth as he walked over to where she was stood at the freshly cleaned autopsy table.

'Doctor Hooper.'

That was another reason. His voice. Deep, rough, unlike any other man she knew. Though she didn't know many men, personally.

'Inspector Lestrade.'

'Good to see you.' He stopped the other side of the table, nodding at the stack of reports in front of her. 'Those the latest batch, then.'

Nodding, Molly pushed them over to him. 'Mostly natural causes, as always...' His eyes met hers and she quickly cleared her throat. 'Which, of course, is a good thing. We...'

How did she back out of that one? Shit. There were ways of talking to officials, and thinly disguised sarcasm was not one of them.

'Natural causes, when they are natural causes, are a good thing.' His eyes were focused on the top file as he thumbed through the few pages it contained. 'Though there are many definitions of natural causes. And more being added every day.'

Did he..? Molly caught his eyes as he looked up. Something in the way he said it; what had he meant? What was he? She knew to always be careful, to keep her thoughts, her feelings to herself around officials. She didn't need Sherlock to tell her that. But what was Lestrade?

'Thank you, for these.' Gathering the pile into his arms, he turned to go.

'You're welcome.' Molly said.

Whatever he was - official, unofficial, rogue - she liked seeing him there. It made the day a little more bearable to see those eyes, and that smile.

Looking back, he held her eyes. Just a few seconds, but she was sure she saw it. Kindness. Since when did an official ever show that? What was he? He seemed to hesitate, but then with one last small smile, he walked out of the morgue.

Molly found herself staring at the swinging door until it finally came to a rest in the frame. Should she be feeling this way - happy? Not that it was unheard of. There were people who were happy; in what their lives had become, there were those who had something that made it bearable.

Perhaps this was how they felt, Molly pondered as she turned from the door, now still, and walked back to her office. Maybe it was. 

* * *

><p>His grandfather had always told him it was the simple things that gave the most pleasure. And pleasure in life was a rare thing now.<p>

A happy smile was one of life's simple things. And a happy smile in the face of an intelligent, beautiful doctor was a pleasure he looked forward to. No one on his team questioned his authority to collect the morgue reports, even if asserting his authority was something he didn't do that often.

Letting the door swing shut behind him, Greg paused. Seeing her smile over the autopsy table at him lightened the darkness pressing against his mind. Looking into her eyes - such a stunning deep brown - he found that he had to pull his thoughts back together and keep it professional. Never had someone had this affect on him; his ex-wife certainly hadn't. But however he felt about her, he couldn't act on it.

Happy relationships were possible, even in the mire and murk of their world. His record on personal relationships had yet to bear that out, but he knew a few people who'd found love. However, to involve Doctor Hooper in any way in his life, his work, would be wrong. If he couldn't escape it, he wasn't about to bring someone else into it. She was rogue; he knew she was. From everything Sherlock had told him, she had to be. But Greg knew it made no difference.

Feeling the files heavy under his arm, he set off down the corridor. The Chief Super would want them sooner rather than later, and Greg needed to keep on his good side. A couple more days and doubtless there would be more bodies, more reports. The Incorporated was keeping them all in jobs.

The shiver slipped down his spine. There had to be a way. If Sherlock was right, then there was a way to keep from view and to get out. There had to be. The tiny possibility sparked in his mind but Greg crushed it back down; taking the wonderful Molly Hooper with him was not an option. 

* * *

><p><strong>First chapter of an experimental dystopian AU. This is very much a work in progress as the ideas come together in my head! Comments are most welcome as I work my way through this one. Many thanks for reading!<strong>


	2. light

She could handle the damp, the smell, the wetness under foot. And the lack of electricity. It was the crying that undid her. Not while she was there though. That wouldn't be right, to go to pieces when she had work to do, when there were still people to treat. No, she'd wait; wait until she was home, in bed and then she would let it undo her.

Lifting the young girl up out of the chair, Molly placed her gently down on the table, feeling for it with her hand. She weighed almost nothing at all. Her clothes felt like they hadn't been washed for a while as they hung off her. She was too thin for her age.

'Can you lift your head up for me, Jenny?'

Gently touching the girl's cheek, Molly shone the torch on her neck. Sores, red and irritated and raw.

'Did you try the cream?'

Moving the torch across, she caught the mother's slow nod.

'Twice a day, like you said, Doctor. But the sores just kept on appearing.'

'And you kept her neck clean?'

'Yes, I did. Honest.' Sounding almost desperate, the mother had started crying.

Reaching over, Molly took hold of her hand, squeezing. 'I know. You did the right thing bringing her back.' Softly placing her hand back on the young girl's head. 'Let's see what we can do, hey?'

With the torch in her mouth, she took the latex glove from her trouser pocket. As she pulled it on, she could feel the girl start to shake. Lightly at first, almost nothing but it gradually got faster. She didn't feel hot; it can't have been a fever. Running her hand over the sores, Molly could feel the heat from them through the glove.

It didn't make sense. If not fever, then what?

'Hey, hey, it's ok.' Putting her hand on Jenny's shoulder, she grabbed the bottle on the chest next to her. 'Drink this.'

The shaking was getting worse. Molly pulled her panic back inside her, shutting it off in her mind. Of no use to her right now. Calm down.

'What's happening, Doctor? Please, help her.' Grabbing her child's hands, Jenny's mother's voice started rising. 'Please! What's wrong with her?'

How could Molly tell her that she didn't know? Pushing away her doubts, she laid Jenny on the table; the child was still shaking, her hands and feet bumping against the table top. Not fever. Poison? But why would it take so long to manifest?

Handing the mother a cloth from the pile on the chair, she poured water from the bottle onto it. 'Wipe her face with this. Keep her cool.'

Without looking back up, Molly threw open the lid of the metal chest, letting it bang against the chair. The only thing left that she thought it could be worried her. Not just worried, but scared her. How could they know? How could they get it into the supply. Torch back in her mouth, she rummaged through, putting aside boxes and tubes, the light finally hitting upon the box she wanted. Bright yellow, unmissable. Ripping it open, removing the tube, she turned back to Jenny. As she ran the light from the torch up and down her body, Molly could see no other sores. So, isolated yet slow working. Ripping open the plastic shrink wrapped packaging, she placed her hand on the girl's thigh, a span from the hip. Just as she jabbed the allergy antidote needle in, the lights snapped on.

Finally. Blinking rapidly, Molly forced her eyes to adjust to the light. Weak though it was, it was brighter than the torches.

Dropping the torch from her mouth, she leaned over. Breathing regulated, Jenny had stopped shaking. Her arms, her feet were beaded with sweat, her eyes fearfully looking between Molly and her mother.

'What was it?'

Molly shook her head. 'I think someone's..'

'Tampered with the cortisone supply.'

Heart in her mouth, Molly whirled around to face the owner of the deep, smooth voice. Standing in the doorway, looking like he just strolled in, Sherlock let his eyes wander over the scene.

In the bright, fluorescent light the room looked even worse than it smelt. Water stains down the walls, rubbish swept into a corner. Limited supplies meant only essential equipment was cleaned thoroughly; the rest had to be left.

'Yes.' Molly turned back to Jenny, helping the girl lift her head to take another long drink. 'Rest, sweetheart. I've got to go see the others now, but I will be back. Promise.'

Brushing damp hair back from the young girl's face, Molly smiled and then turned to Sherlock. His eyes had already taken in the whole room; he was now staring at her. Brushing past him, out of the damp room, she picked her way over the debris on the floor - old boxes, abandoned containers, upended chairs. Finding an empty room, she slipped inside.

Long, slow, deep breath. Eyes closed, she dropped her head back. Counting.

The soft touch on her arm didn't startle her. She knew those fingers. Gentle and slender. Sherlock's hands came to rest on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles at the base of neck. Little by little, the tension unknotted itself; her mind was still racing but her body was relaxing under his touch.

'Thank you.'

'For what? This?'

'Hmm. And for the electricity. Your brother again?'

His fingers stopped. 'Yes. He has his uses.'

'Sherlock, he's putting himself in danger.' Molly turned to face him. 'They'll be watching him, He's still an Irregular, he's...'

'Happy to do it, Molly. Anyway, they're not quick enough to catch him.'

'Maybe not. But they're catching up with us.' Running her hands over her eyes, Molly shook her head. 'They've got to one of our suppliers. How else could they have tampered with the cortisone?'

'Possibly.'

Fingers steepled at his chin, Sherlock had that far off look in his eye. Molly knew it was best to leave him to it. Mysteries to solve were his area. She mended the ill in damp, dank places where they couldn't be found. Taking in the Unfortunates that the Incorporated allowed to fall out of the system. Just like they were rubbish to be discarded when...

No.

She couldn't let her anger start, not right then. Sherlock would find out what was going on, he'd pick up the clues that no-one else saw. Or chose not to see, as was the method of the Force. Anything unofficial, or unfortunate, was beyond their concern or assistance.

Would that be Inspector Lestrade's method?

And suddenly his face appeared in her mind. What was he? Molly couldn't reconcile what she knew the Force to be with what she felt around him. The look of kindness in his eyes, his smile. Was he really like all of the other officers?

Stop it.

Molly snapped her brain back to the present. The noises rushed back into her head. People in pain, dripping water, humming lights. She had a job to do. There were still more patients to see. Time enough to think about the enigmatic Greg Lestrade when she was alone.

Checking her watch, she rubbed at her neck, at the ache from bending over too many patients already that evening.

'Here.' And his soft fingers were back, rubbing the ache from under her skin.

'Thank you, Sherlock.' Just a little longer, feeling the tender yet expert way he touched her. 'I better get back to it.'

'Leave it with me.'

'Be careful. And tell Mycroft to be careful. Please.'

Grabbing his hand, Molly refused to let go until he nodded. And then he disappeared through the doorway in a swirl of coat. Stubborn idiot. He wouldn't stop wearing it, despite the whole of London knowing it was Sherlock Holmes beneath the coat whenever they saw it. Smiling, she pulled her hair back into its ponytail. But then what did he care for the opinions of others.

'Molly.' The head of one of the nurses appeared around the doorframe. 'Broken leg. Going to need you to reset it.'

And so the evening went on. Molly was pretty sure she wouldn't get home till gone 1 or 2 in the morning. And that they couldn't use this location again tomorrow night.

* * *

><p><strong>Pathologist by day, rogue doctor by night. With a little Sherlock thrown in. Written late last night as the inspiration kept coming! Some editing done today on it. Many thanks for reading!<strong>


	3. dark

**Secrets to keep, a job to do. He just had to keep control of the fear.**

* * *

><p><em>Four years earlier<em>

_It had happened again; the fourth case in the past two days. The report had come in, they'd been briefed - a body found behind the Hall of Parliament - and made their way to the crime scene. Once there, a few quick questions, a check of paperwork and the DCI called her team off._

_'Nothing here for us to do.'_

_And that was it. Case over. From what Greg could see of the crime scene, the body was fully clothed, a blood trail carrying on along the laneway and then turning a corner. Plenty for them to do there._

_'Leave it?'_

_The DCI nodded. 'Not our concern.'_

_And that had been her response to the other three crime scenes. A response she had never used before the new Police Force Bill had become law; or before the Incorporated officials had visited the Yard a week ago._

_Twenty six years a copper and you never left someone lying where they'd been found. There was proper process to follow and a respect for their dignity, whoever they were. _

_But that was the thing now wasn't it? Who you were did matter. Official, you were treated with all due dignity. Unofficial, you were left to the body baggers. And that thought gave him a terrible, cold feeling Greg couldn't shake. As for rogue, who knew what happened to them._

* * *

><p>'You know a Doctor Hooper. You collect morgue reports from her.'<p>

Greg felt his heart stop. 'Doctor Hooper, at Barts? I know her, yes.'

Looking at the Chief Super across the regulation neat and tidy desk, he forced himself to breath normally. Calm.

'I'm just back from the meeting with the Commander .' His boss placed the brown file he was holding down on the desk between them. 'Her name was mentioned as a possible rogue. Information is that she runs an unauthorised clinic.'

'Doctor Hooper?' Leaning back in the chair, Greg pushed away the sick feeling in his stomach.

'You sound surprised.'

'I am, sir.' He could keep his feelings down, crushed back inside him. If Molly Hooper's life depended upon it, he could lie with the best of them.

'You don't think she is?' The Chief Super leaned forward , elbows resting on the open file in front of him.

Glancing down for a couple of seconds, Greg's eyes fell on her name. He'd been able to read the neat writing of the Commander's clerk upside down for a while now.

A file on Doctor Molly Hooper.

'She doesn't strike me as the type, sir.' Voice neutral, heart hammering in his chest. 'Not as someone who could be rogue.'

Everything about her struck Greg as being rogue. Her smile, her eyes, her care taken over the people dumped in her morgue by the body baggers; bodies that she knew were not dying of natural causes.

'How, Lestrade?'

'She just seems... subdued, quiet. I mean she obviously is good at what she does - you read her reports - but she gets on with it and does it.'

The Chief Super was nodding as he leaned back in his chair. 'There I agree with you. She does her job without asking questions.'

Because she knows the right and wrong people to ask questions of. Greg nodded along with his boss. Maybe he was being tested, maybe the Chief Super was trying to catch him out. Everyone was suspicious about everyone else; that was how life under the Incorporated worked.

Greg had once been in two minds about his boss. Official or unofficial, he'd not been sure. Thought he might have seen glimpses of.. of what, he didn't know. Maybe he was meant to see them; maybe they were trying to catch him out. But right then, Greg went for official. A person didn't rise to the position of Chief Superintendent in the Police Force if there was even a hint of unofficial about them.

Watching him close the file, placing it on the top of his tray, Greg knew there was no way that his boss would leave it at that. Once there was a file, it was always there. And always open.

* * *

><p>Slowly drawing deeply on this cigarette, he could feel the nicotine gently curl its way around his lungs. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the tug of the tobacco on his system. He probably ought to try giving them up again.<p>

Leaning himself against the freshly graffiti-ed wall, tucked down one of the maze of side lanes outside the Yard, he waited. He was out of sight of the main street, which was usually quiet anyway. But this was the spot. Down a random lane, hidden between windowless walls of anonymous office buildings. A little neglected - windswept rubbish, haphazard rogue posters, the graffiti - but nothing that wouldn't be cleaned up in the night. Under darkness so that officials didn't need to see it.

'You needin' someone, mister?'

The kid couldn't have been no more than 13. Sidling silently up to him. Neatly dressed, he could easily pass for a respectable official school kid. Clean coat, neat trousers, nice shoes. The brothers certainly took good care of their little scurry of runners.

'I am.'

The boy nodded. 'He's busy at the moment. Can get him here in a couple of hours.'

'Not here. The bridge, in an hour.'

Hesitating, the boy looked up at him. 'That'll be bit more difficult, mister.'

'Tell him it's his doctor. Give him two words - _Molly_ and_ file_. He'll make it.'

And then as quickly as he'd appeared, the boy was off; not even trying to hide the look on his face. That took Greg by surprise. He knew that Molly Hooper meant a lot to Sherlock, and to Mycroft in his own way. But for one of the runners to look worried and sprint off to find Sherlock Holmes, that was new. She touched a lot of people; a kindness like hers would do.

Greg held the image of her in his head - her smile when she saw him coming through the morgue door, the memory of her smoothing back the bedraggled hair of an unofficial, an old lady, on her autopsy table.

How could such kindness be a bad thing? How?

Angrily stubbing the cigarette out against the brick wall, he started back down the laneway. Hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

Whenever he was in her morgue, watching her, seeing those small cares she took over the bodies, he knew it couldn't be a bad thing. In his mind and his heart he knew that kindness - altruism, goodness, charity, whatever words the Incorporated wanted to blacken - was something they needed to protect. For the sake of their humanity, what did they have left?

* * *

><p>They called it a bridge, though it was more like a gangway. Just metal sheets and a few poles holding it together. A quick way, several storeys up, between the disused buildings of Soho. Jammed in, buildings butting up against each other, a person could lose themselves, lose others in amongst the confusion of the neglected place.<p>

'How much of it did you see?'

'Not enough. Sorry Sherlock.'

Passing the half smoked cigarette back to the younger man, Greg rammed his frozen hands into his pockets. Coldest winter on record, apparently.

'We know that it exists, that's a start.'

'If they're not trying to play me with it.'

Throwing the cigarette butt over the side of the bridge, Sherlock leaned back, letting his head loll dangerously near the edge.

'True. We can't know that for sure. But based on the fact you're still there and still official, maybe they aren't onto you.'

'Or they haven't got enough on me yet.'

'You doubt Mycroft?' That raised eyebrow.

'You know I don't.'

Whatever it was that Mycroft Holmes, official of the Hall of Parliament, did and however he eluded and hoodwinked all those around him, it kept them safe. Safe and alive and official. And at great personal risk to himself.

'Then stop worrying.'

Seriously? What the hell?

'Stop worrying? _Stop worrying?_' Greg turned away from him, trying to keep his voice calm. 'I can't get out. I can't leave. D'you have any idea how much I dread going in there every morning? Scared shitless that someone's going to find out what I'm doing. Trying not to be caught, trying not to slip up...'

Feeling his hands starting to shake, Greg stopped. Leaning himself against the side of the bridge, he took a deep breath. Gripping the railing, he closed his eyes.

Shut it down.

He grabbed at the feeling, shoving the panic back inside his mind, forcing the shaking to stop. Feeling each of his fingers as they clutched at the freezing cold metal of the railing, Greg let go. Pulling his coat further round him, he shivered. And not just from the cold.

He hated winter. Dark too early, cold, wet. All the things that meant they found more unfortunates huddled in the side lanes the next morning, dead. All for the want of a roof over their heads and a bit of warmth. Officially, he couldn't do anything about it. Because it was now part of his job, the Force's job, to make sure they didn't get that roof. And as for unofficially, Greg wasn't sure what he was doing was enough.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump. Gently squeezing then letting go, Sherlock leaned against the railing beside him.

'Come with me tonight. Come and see her.'

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 finally sorted itself out. There was so much I wanted to put in it but I had be to strict with myself. I'll save the rest for later! Many thanks for reading.<strong>


	4. quiet

'Do you trust me?'

Those eyes. Molly could always see the truth in them. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting the swirl of colours in them sparked as he looked into hers.

'Yes. Of course I do. You know that.' Probably a bit too sharp. But she was busy, and confused.

Molly shifted the box of bandages to her other arm, tucking it against her hip. An hour into the clinic and already onto a second supply; there seemed to be more people tonight, something which she knew she would ponder later. Right then Sherlock Holmes, and his actions, had her full attention.

'Then trust me on this.'

'I trusted you on Jim.' It was out before she could stop it. His name still caught at her, still the small sting at her heart. Sherlock's face softened, his eyes staring into hers intently, his hand on her shoulder.

'It all turned out ok in the end.' His fingers squeezing her shoulder gently; he must have seen the pain cross her face, try as she did to hide it. 'I am sorry, Molly. I always will be. And I will never misjudge it again.'

'I know.' It came out as a whisper.

Shoving the memory of the brief, unsettling relationship with Jim back into the tightly controlled recesses of her mind, Molly focused on the present. And on the sight of Greg Lestrade standing behind Sherlock. Hands in his pockets, his eyes roaming the corridor around him, taking it all in. Watching as he leaned in to talk to the young man, no more than a teenager really, tugging on his coat sleeve. Carefully checking the wound on the boy's arm, leading him towards a doorway, nodding to the nurse who took the boy into a room off the corridor.

Why had Sherlock brought him? Even though he was a Force officer, Sherlock trusted him? How long had they known each other? Molly had considered that the Inspector was not as official as he appeared to be in her morgue. Everything about him was unlike any of the other officers she dealt with. They all pretty much gave her the creeps, but with him she always felt comfortable. He was different.

What did that make him? And why was he here?

Sherlock's hand on her cheek startled her. Looking concerned, he'd brought his face level with hers. 'Molly? I have to go. You need anything, send Billy. He knows where I'll be.'

Nodding, she stepped back from him. Trust Sherlock to turn her mind into disarray. Looking over to the Inspector, already out of his coat and talking to a young father, Molly felt thrown. Seeing him at the morgue, meeting as officials in their jobs, that made sense to her. But seeing him here, in the bright, cold corridor with patients and nurses bustling around them, confused her. Did he belong in their rogue world?

Even as her mind tried to process his presence, she couldn't help the smile that was forming on her lips. Because it was there again, the kindness in his eyes and his smile as he looked back over to her, a young girl in his arms with a nasty looking break to her ankle.

'Bring her in here.' Molly gestured as she stepped towards the tiny, bright room where an examination table had been set up. She felt him behind her, his rough voice reassuring the young girl that the brilliant doctor was going to help fix her ankle, good and proper. Molly liked how her skin tickled at the sound of his voice so close. And at their sides touching as he carefully set the girl down on the table, a smile and a squeeze of her small hand.

Inspector Lestrade had to be rogue.

* * *

><p>Dropping herself onto the sturdy wooden box, Molly lowered her head into her hands, feeling the sigh of relief her legs gave at a chance to finally stop. That evening was busy; busiest it'd been for a while. Perhaps word was spreading, perhaps people were travelling from further away?<p>

Rolling her shoulders, she tried to shake off the tension. What she really needed was Sherlock's hands; no idea where he'd learned to massage so expertly but then Molly had stopped being surprised by him a long time ago. People could do stuff, make things happen, procure the unobtainable. Life had stopped surprising her.

'Tea, Doctor Hooper?'

Though not completely it would seem; life still had a few surprises left for her. The deep rough voice sent a quick shiver down her spine. Straightening herself up, Molly took in the police detective in front of her.

Coat and jacket-less, Greg Lestrade had his shirt sleeves rolled up (just as doctors were still supposed to), revealing his toned forearms, specks of silver amongst the hairs. And he'd removed his tie, the top buttons undone on his shirt. Molly suddenly found herself wondering whether his chest hair was just as silver.

'Tea?'

'Oh... I.. sorry.'

Mortifying. She'd been staring at him, daydreaming about him while he stood there trying to balance two mugs of steaming tea and a plate of what looked like Mrs Hudson's Dundee cake. Reaching up, hoping he couldn't see the creeping blush on her cheeks, Molly took the mug he held out to her, finding herself returning his handsome smile as she picked a piece of the rich cake from the plate.

'Thank you, Inspector. It's really kind of you.'

'You look like you need it.'

'Definitely.' Molly nodded, mouth full of rather delicious cake.

He pulled over another abandoned wooden crate, settling himself next to her. Close enough to make her arm tickle at the thought of him there.

'Please, call me Greg.'

'Thank you, Greg.' She liked the sound of it as she said it. A straight forward, to the point, honest kind of name. 'And please call me Molly. Doctor Hooper sounds so official.'

'And we're not very official, are we.'

'No. I think us being here probably makes us a bit unofficial.'

'A bit, yeah. Possibly even a little rogue.'

'Possibly, yes.'

Silence fell between them. Distracting herself, Molly took a sip of the hot, strong tea, glad for the feeling of calm it sent through her. It was sugared; not normally how she took her tea. Hadn't Mrs Hudson said once that sugared tea was good for shock? Not that seeing Greg or sitting next to him, their knees almost touching, was a shock. Though it was... unexpected? Strange? Nice? Very. All of the above.

'Better?'

His quiet voice broke into her thoughts. Molly focused herself back into the small room, with its the single hanging bulb dim but working and the sounds of patients echoing softly down the corridor outside. The building - dry, cold, solid grubby white brick walls - was like a maze with its multitude of small rooms and corridors. Must have been an old school or workhouse once. Turned into rooms of the cheap kind, ones that unofficial landlords let out for too much money and not enough care. How many people could the building sleep? She'd get Sherlock to mention it to Mycroft.

And in that small room, right then, it was just the two of them and their mugs of tea. Quiet enough for her to hear his breathing, the scuffing of his shoes against the floor. Turning her head, Molly found his eyes looking into hers, his body half turned towards her.

'Yes. Much better.' She smiled as he did. 'Thank you.'

'Good.' Holding her eyes a moment longer, he looked back to his tea, taking a long slow sip. 'So how long have you been doing all this? If you don't mind me asking, that is, I mean you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I...'

Watching him getting all flustered, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, made her heart turn over a little. He always seemed so confident in the morgue. His awkwardness made him even more handsome and nice as far as Molly was concerned.

'No, I don't mind.' Popping the last bit of fruit cake into her mouth - had she eaten it all without even noticing? Must've been a while since she'd last eaten. Brushing crumbs from her lap, Molly took her mug between both her hands, letting the warmth relax them. 'We've been running this for about three years, I think.'

Three years. She was sure it'd been that long since Sherlock had made a sudden unannounced appearance in the morgue, making her jump as she walked out of her office to find him lingering by the door. Mycroft was expanding his unofficial ventures and Sherlock had insisted that she was the only person who could help out with this particular one. Waiting only for her 'yes', he'd disappeared in his customary whirl of billowing coat. Sherlock had rather taken to his new persona as a shadowy presence on the streets. Whispers about him had spread over those past few years; a coat wearing hero roaming London, defiant, almost nonchalant in the face of the Incorporated. And gathering fellow rogues, like her and Greg, around him.

'Three years? Not every night, though?' Shaking his head, he looked at her over the top of his mug.

'No, not quite. But most nights.'

Greg's eyes became serious. Molly found she couldn't look away, nor did she want to. She felt happy. Sitting, talking, drinking tea with him, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

'Listen, after this, can I walk you home? Unless Sherlock's going with you...'

'Sherlock?'

'You seem... sorry, none of my business I know, but you seem close.'

'We are close. Close friends.'

His face changed. His smile widened, his eyes brightened. And Molly felt her heart stumble over a few beats. Was she falling for this man?

Personal relationships were not really her thing; she'd been mistaken over Sherlock's feelings and then Jim'd tried to manipulate her. Anyway, men seemed to be put off by the whole forensic pathologist thing. Dreaded first date question - _So, what do you do?_ - soon saw an end to any potential romance. As did the Incorporated; infiltrating every corner of their existence so that even who to go out for a drink with ended up being a bit fraught. Were they an upright or duplicitous official? A dodgy or honest unofficial? Between working at the clinic and her association with Sherlock, she figured it was best just to avoid anything like that all together. Safer.

'Just friends then, you two?'

Was that a hopeful edge to his voice?

'Yes. Just friends. I, um... I better get back.' Standing up, Molly hesitated. 'Thank you for the tea and cake.'

'You're welcome.' He'd stood up beside her, reaching out to take the mug.

'And, yes, I'd like that. To walk home with you, that is.' If the Holmes brothers trusted him, then Molly decided that she would as well.

'Oh...' His hand stopped by hers. 'Oh, ok, cool. Thank you.'

Passing him the empty mug, Molly felt his fingers brush against her. The spark rushed along her hand, tingling up her arm. But she didn't pull back. Neither did Greg. And she found herself caught by his eyes once again; she'd never noticed before what a beautiful dark shade of brown they were, almost black under the dim light.

Yes, she was pretty sure she was falling for him.

* * *

><p><strong>A quiet moment alone together for Molly and Greg. Just what they needed! Many thanks for reading.<strong>


	5. thoughts

Running his finger along it, he smiled to himself. Even in the fading light of the London dusk her handwriting mesmerised him, the swirls and curves, neatly crossing the page.

Reaching over, he flicked on the desk lamp. Better light for actually reading what Doctor Hooper had written in her report. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, Greg leaned his head on his hand, elbow propped up on the pile of files next to him.

Turning his pen round between his fingers, he found his mind wandering back to last night. Walking beside her, down Old Fleet Street, close enough to hear her breathing, for their arms to brush against each other. He remembered sneaking glances at her while they'd worked side by side. She was beautiful. He hadn't been able to stop staring at her as they sat and drank tea and ate cake. Something so normal in the midst of what they were actually doing.

Greg never put a name to it, never voiced what it was that they were doing. Sooner or later, he would have to. Because now he was sure that he was falling in love with Molly. And he knew that he couldn't tell her; he couldn't act on his feelings. Was there any point in thinking that maybe one day he would be able to? That things would go back to how they were before? Could they do it?

The knock startled him. Snapping his head up, he watched the door open and the DCI lean through.

'Still here, Lestrade?' Smiling, she let herself in, closing the door behind her. 'I wonder if I could have a word.'

What did she want? Discomfort seemed to radiate from her as she moved over to his desk.

'Of course, ma'am. Let me just get these out of the way.'

Standing up, he roughly stacked the files together, dumping them back into the open drawer of the filing cabinet.

'Morgue reports?'

'Yeah. Just logging the last of them from the other day.'

If she wondered why one of her DIs was doing something so routine, she didn't question it. Greg often delegated the official cases to his sergeants, the deaths considered worthy of investigating. Well, not all of them; he had to investigate his share of the official to not look suspicious. Striking a balance between in charge and willing to muck in with the mundane. Bit of a tight rope.

No one questioned why he wanted to collect and log the body bagger morgue reports; he got the impression his team found that part of their job a bit dull. Which was fine by him. Unsettling as it was to track and monitor them, Greg knew Mycroft needed the information.

Turning back, he saw the DCI looking down at the file he'd been reading when she'd walked in. Her eyes ran over the neat, delicate handwriting; Greg felt his fingers clench at her casual flicking through it.

He'd memorised its contents. Middle aged woman, cause of death - lowered body temperature due to illness. One of the long list of official natural causes. But he saw the findings and observations Molly had scattered throughout the report, worded so as not to make it obvious. Greg knew what the actual cause of death was. Hypothermia. Froze to death due to a lack of somewhere warm and a roof over their head. The location code - EC1A00, heart of the old City. Enough alleyways and lane ways for an unfortunate to lose themselves in and be discovered dead overnight by the street clearers.

'Always an increase over winter.' His boss nodded at the open file on his desk. 'Illness. The cold weather seems to bring it on worse for some.'

Leaning against the cabinet, Greg nodded. Keeping his face sombre while crushing the anger back down inside his stomach. It seemed to come so easy to her, toeing the official Incorporated line. His DCI must have been a natural straight up official.

'So, you wanted a word?'

'Yes.' Closing the file, the DCI tapped her finger against Molly's name on the front. 'About Doctor Hooper.'

'Doctor Hooper?'

'The Chief Super's brought down orders; he wants her investigated.'

Suddenly aware that he was holding his breath, Greg willed his lungs to start again.

'Any particular type of investigating?'

Hesitating, his boss looked past his shoulder and out the window at the lights of London, bright against the darkening sky.

'Well, yes. That's why I wanted to talk to you. It's out of the ordinary, not something we'd normally do. A bit more delicate.'

Delicate? Elbow propped on top of the cabinet, he ran a hand through his hair and let it rest against the back of his neck, mainly to stop it from shaking. He didn't like the implication of his boss's words.

'We need more information on her, on her activities. Normal observation isn't providing much at all. When the officers think they've got her, she disappears.'

They'd already detailed for her to be monitored? Shit.

He'd only seen the file yesterday; how long had they had it before then? And how long had they been following her? Greg couldn't assume that Sherlock and Mycroft knew about it. Maybe they had figured it out? The runners might've seen something; they might have spotted if any officers had tried to follow her last night. He hoped they had.

Feeling his heart beating faster, Greg caught at the growing feeling of panic. It wouldn't do Molly any good if he couldn't keep hold of his fear for her. Pushing himself off the filing cabinet, he moved back to his desk; perching on the edge, he reached for the file. The DCI let go of it as Greg picked it up.

'So following her isn't proving useful then, ma'am?'

'No. Which is where the Chief Super believes you'll be more useful, as you know her.' The DCI cleared her throat, obviously uncomfortable at having to ask him.

'I'd be more useful? How?'

Bloody hell. Greg knew exactly what they wanted him to do.

'We need you to get close to her. Get information from her about her activities.'

And his heart stopped.

Molly Hooper was not someone the Force would find straight forward to monitor; why else would they come to him with an order for something 'out of the ordinary'. A rogue spying on a rogue. How would that even begin to work? And as for his feelings for her; the whole thing was too tangled to make sense of right then.

'Get close to her, as in friendly?'

'Yes..' Pausing, the DCI looked him straight in the eye. '..more if necessary.'

'Right.' Greg tried to keep his face calm, like he was pondering what his boss had just asked of him. Focusing on the feel of the rough file between his fingers, he squashed his panic into a tight ball. Professional.

'You're ok with that? I mean the exact details haven't been logged yet. More than friendly may not be necessary, but we need to consider the possibility.'

Why was she even asking him if he was ok with it? An order brought down from higher up, even an 'off the record' order, wasn't actually open to discussion.

'Yeah, sure, I'm ok with that.' Greg nodded, standing up to place the last file back in the drawer, pushing it closed.

The DCI relaxed, the tense stance dropping. 'Thank you, Greg. You know, the Chief Super thinks highly of you. There's an opening for DCI in the Fraud Team. If this goes well, you might want to consider it.'

If this goes well? How, in any sense, could it go well? An operation to investigate a rogue doctor, one who provided medical treatment to those that the Incorporated believed should be denied it? Intending to put a stop to the clinic, an unofficial and illegal one, that they suspected she was involved with?

'A DCI post in Fraud?'

It was the furthest thing from his current state of mind, but Greg knew he needed to keep up the pretence, however much he felt the need to bolt from the office and find a runner.

His boss paused as she reached for the door handle. 'Think about it. I know you'd be good there, though I'd hate to lose you from our team.'

'I will think about it, ma'am. Thank you.'

Once the door was closed, the DCI gone, Greg let his eyes drop down to his desk; he leaned forward, hands braced on top of it. Giving off the impression of a hard working officer, going through the last few papers scattered across his desk. Slowly he started to count. Breathing in and out. Keeping the image of Molly in his head - her smile, the feel of her hand against his - he counted.

_...18, 19, 20._

Lifting his head up, Greg looked through the half frosted glass wall of his office. Just a last few members of his team left; shutting down tablets, turning off desk lights, pulling on coats, their day finally done.

He wanted to go to her; to see her and tell her. It wouldn't just be the clinic they'd want to put a stop to; that wasn't how things worked these days. They would want to put a stop to Molly Hooper as well.

But she wasn't without friends, without protection. However he did it, Mycroft Holmes kept her safe and official and would keep doing so. Greg knew what he could offer Molly was no match for what the elder Holmes did for her. But he wanted to be able to offer it, and hoped she would want to accept.

But he couldn't go to her. If they were monitoring her, then it would get back to the DCI that he went straight to see her from work. Suspicious behaviour.

Tomorrow. He promised himself that he would see her tomorrow; there would be more reports to collect from the morgue. He had to play the part now, outwardly at least, of an officer monitoring a suspect.

But he could still think about her. Smiling as he took his coat from the stand, Greg shrugged himself into it, adjusting his jacket underneath, slinging his scarf around his neck. Pulling his office door shut, he felt his fingers tingle as he remembered her touch again. He was falling for her, he was sure of that much at least.

Checking his watch, he decided an early evening coffee at Matteo's was what he needed before driving home. Coffee and a couple of messages for the runners.

* * *

><p><strong>Rogues pretending to be official just got a whole lot more complicated! Many thanks for reading.<strong>


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